


Masks

by verucasalt123



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Big Brother Dean, Hurt Dean Winchester, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, M/M, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-17
Updated: 2013-10-17
Packaged: 2017-12-29 16:16:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1007462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verucasalt123/pseuds/verucasalt123
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s just what has to be done.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Masks

**Author's Note:**

  * For [reapertownusa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/reapertownusa/gifts).



> I wrote this for the multifandom gift exchange last year and am just now getting around to crossposting it here.

Dean had left the apartment with a completely fake smile plastered on his face.

“Don’t wait up, Sammy, I’ll be a while.”

These days, it seemed like every facial expression he showed was a mask. John had left him home with his brother for this last hunt because Dean had a cold. A case of the freaking sniffles and he was useless, relegated to babysitting duty. 

“I don’t want a sick kid watching my six, Dean. You’ll stay, and that’s the end of it.”

Of course that was the end of it. 

Except that the hunt had turned out to be much more complicated than John originally figured it would be. 

Because of that, Dean was left with Sam a week longer than they’d planned.

If the money hadn’t run out, Dean wouldn’t have been so agitated about it. Sam didn’t mind so much that his father was gone. Dean didn’t especially mind John’s absence either, it was a break for him from the constant tug-of-war that was his life now that Sam was closing in on fifteen and the two of them were at each other’s throats on a daily basis. Always, _always_ , Dean found himself caught in the middle of some argument between his brother and his father. 

He loved Sam more than anything, even understood that maybe John shouldn’t expect him to be just like Dean, shouldn’t be so hard on him all the time, should cut the kid some slack. He liked the little glimpses of the old Sammy he got to see when John wasn’t around.

But as much as he loved his brother, he _worshipped_ his father. Dean wanted to be every bit the expert hunter that his father was. It was exceptionally rare that John praised him or even recognized his hard work (as a brother, or hunter, or son), but when it did happen, Dean practically lit up on the inside. 

Yes, on the inside, it’s not like he threw his arms around his father’s neck for a hug when John said something like “Nice work, Dean” or even patted his shoulder. He didn’t know that friends, other family members, coworkers, even acquaintances did and said things like that every day. For Dean, a hand on his shoulder or a brief, small smile were like gifts he could never put a value on. Most of the time, he _lived_ to impress his dad, to show him how useful he could be on hunts, to convince him he had the passion and dedication required to be good at it. 

Of course, there were times when living to impress John had to be put on hold. Like now, when he’d been gone way past the time the money he’d left them had run out. Those times were the ones when he lived to take care of Sam. As much as John had drilled firearms training and monster lore into his head, the number one rule was that Sammy needed looking after, and that it was Dean’s job to do it. John had made an attempt, when Sam was younger, but as he reached this rebellious teenage phase, their father had given up and laid that burden squarely onto Dean’s shoulders. 

Not that it was a burden. Not really. It was what was expected of him, and he sure didn’t think he deserved a medal for just doing what he was supposed to do. Tonight wasn’t going to be the first time he did this, and it almost certainly wouldn’t be the last.

Leaving the house that night after having made Sam three grilled cheese sandwiches (once they were toasted, it was much less obvious that the bread was stale), he stopped at the curb to open the trunk of the Impala. He tossed his overshirt and t-shirt into it, then retrieved one of Sam’s shirts that was clearly too tight. With a huff of disgust, he pulled out the hidden stick of black kohl pencil and traced the bottoms of his eyes with it. Dean thought maybe he hated that part more than the part where he was sucking some random dude’s cock in an alley. He knew it was part of the look, though, and he’d done it enough times that he didn’t even need a mirror. 

Even though there was still just a bit of chill in the air, he didn’t bother with a jacket. No sense in covering up what was on offer, after all. Here on the streets he had an advantage. He could easily pass for older or younger than his actual age of nineteen (knowing from experience that lots of guys liked their boys to be _boys_ as opposed to men). He could spot a psycho or a cop from half a block. He could definitely protect himself if some guy tried to pull anything on him. 

So it was fine, really, all of it. Just another way to make money, he always told himself. It was redeeming, too. So what if his little bout with some bug that gave him a cold made him no good on a hunt, he could still contribute to the family, still make himself useful. He blocked out all of the possible reactions his father might have to finding out that he sold himself to feed his brother. No time for that now, though it always lingered in the back of his mind. _There’s no shame in it, man, you’re just doing what needs to be done_. Which was bullshit, because there most certainly was a generous measure of shame in getting on your knees for a stranger. No matter how he tried to hold it back, Dean always felt it.

His father would never have done something like this.

His father had never lived this kind of life when he was a teenager. 

His father had two parents who loved him and a house and regular meals and warm clothes in the winter. 

No matter. Time for the next mask of the night, the one with the easy, open smile; the one that said _I’ll give you your money’s worth_. 

It had been a pretty easy night too, got a little roughed up by one guy but it would be easy to explain away a bruise on his face if Sam asked. Or if it was still there when their dad came back. Bar fight, that was always the explanation, and no one ever questioned it. 

Changed back into his own shirts and adding the evening’s earnings to the four dollars left in the coffee can under the kitchen sink, Dean heard the sound of shuffling feet in the hallway. Damn it, now he was going to have to pull out just one more mask. 

“What’re you doin’, Dean?”, Sam asked, his eyes still half-closed from sleepiness but his body held straight as a board, clear tension in all his muscles.

“Good night at the pool tables, kid”, he replied with a confident grin that did not belong to him, not even a little. “How about we order Chinese takeout tomorrow for dinner, huh?”

Dean knew Sam saw the bruise, knew Sam was tempted to ask, knew Sam thought he was full of shit. Of course, though, he just smiled instead, said that would be great, and headed back to bed.

It wasn’t until he was sure Sammy was all the way back to sleep before he slipped into the shower, washing off the dirt and smell and humiliation of the night. And for once, he just let himself cry.


End file.
